Whether the narrative is new or old, it's telling. Sick of
the gaps, I entered the field of lost intentions, brute turmoil,
incoherent allegiances. The dream would have you leaping off a tall
building, only to awaken at dawn to a voice you recognize as not
your own. Life extension was a misnomer, as the life that was extended
was immaterial. Little was said about the fantasies of adoptive
mothers, even those who refuse email correspondence. Reasons we
can only guess at feed the American distrust of what is imagined.
The paper cut matters when you think of it. I would place the emphasis
less on what is concocted (rhymes with constructed) than with how
it's parsed. Interpretation must needs be as various as. But
we knew that, didn't we? Where "truth" and "identity"
are utopian, prone if not to avalanche than to landfall, the point
from which souls move out, shift, take on other shawls or wings.
The Korean stork became an airplane, conflating nature with the
fictive. Kinship in some circles is not a perfect geometry. Send
your virus complaints to the originating host.

katherine harris in paradise

She's writing the book on recounts. Recantations, remainders,
the last knob of the skeleton whose hand she shakes. Removalists
are those who shift us. In the cookie jar, the face she left. The
man who lost his pockets descended the stair, presumptive helix.
He's Hawaiian, you know, but his face is German. What's
your mix? replaces (and yet is) your line, silly Brits hosting hoedowns
by the pool. Not a settler poetics, but an adoptive one, for these
are your feeding parents. A rose may be a rose, but wolves raised
the twins, and Kaspar's name meant house. My two year old
son is "Sangha Sherbet Rabbit
Dada Schultz."